Freak Power
by Lola S. Cubish
Summary: This is a dedication to Fan Fiction, and especially to the TMNT Fanfic Awards. It's about the prosess of writing a


**Freak Power**   
**Lola S. Cubish**   


* * *

"To get the ultimate effect out of the beginning of this story, you should be listening to 'Oh Yeah' by Yello," said Michaelangelo. 

YES, IT'S GOING TO BE ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DELIGHTFUL NARRATOR-TALKING-TO-CHARACTERS-RPG'ISH-ATMOSPHERE STORIES. AND MIKE-- _WHO _TOLD YOU THAT YOU WERE THE ONE TO KICK-START THIS STORY, HMM? I WOULD _DIE_ TO KNOW.

Mike promptly ignored the Narrator. "You know! The song that played all the time in Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Like for example when they uncovered his best friend's dad's car-- whatever his name was, but we all remember him-- and Yello were going 'Oooohh yeaaahhh....chick-a-chick-aahhh!', remember? I think Charlie Sheen even had a guest role somewhere-- yeah, he was this drug addict or something, and hehe, Ferris' _sister_, she--" 

MIKE? I THINK YOU'VE MADE IT CLEAR. 

"Oh no..." 

WHAT? 

"You're going to make me look like a blabbering fool again, yeah?" 

WHO? YOU MEAN ME? 

"Ooohh yeaaahh," 

EXTREMELY FUNNY. 

"Hey, by the way-- why are you talking like that?" 

LIKE WHAT? 

"Like THAT!" 

EXCUSE ME. BEEN READING TOO MUCH TERRY PRATCHETT LATELY. YOU KNOW, DEATH AND ALL THAT STUFF. HE SPEAKS IN CAPITALS. I THINK IT SUITED THIS STORY. 

"Very...serious," 

THANK YOU.   


* * *

"Why's this story called Freak Power? I resent that!" Raphael glared up at the Narrator. 

I'M NOT SURPRISED. 

"You messin' with me?" 

NO. Suddenly a big cow-- NO, THAT IDEA'S ALREADY USED. I APOLOGIZE, LEAH. All of a sudden, Raph was wearing a pink tutu, and five rather large monkeys were rolling him in tar and feathers, and stuffing bananas in places you don't want to know about. 

_NOW_ I'M MESSING WITH YOU. 

"WHAT THE #¤&#%¤ IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?" bellowed Raphael. 

HEY. CAPITAL LETTERS ARE _MY_ GIMMICK. 

The words that came out from Raph's mouth next, although swearing does not affect me much, are erased from the story on the account and benefit of you touchy Americans. No offense intended. 

ALL RIGHT. BABU, COCO, AND YOU OTHERS-- LET HIM GO AT ONCE. 

Raphael rolled up from the greasy dressing of tar and feathers and stood, after a few failures, on his two, very angry legs, the black gooey liquid and sticky feathers only successfully ruining some of the impressive effect that is the raging Raphael.   
He teared the pink abomination off of himself, making a delicious sound that would make-- 

"Okay, knock it off," he mumbled, throwing the pink shreds all over. 

WHY? IT'S MY JOB. 

"Ya can narrate, alright, but cantcha thinka something less _sick_ to say?!" he paused, "Please?" 

It would appear as if Raphael had learned a thing or to from the monkey's piratish torture. 

"I have NOT," he scowled, "just ain't about ta take chances, thaz all," 

YOU? NOT TAKE CHANCES? HA. GOOD ONE. 

Raph quickly and evasively changed the subject, "Hey, why didn't you-- what? Whaddaya mean 'quickly and evasively'?!" 

JUST GET ON WITH THE STORY. 

Raph muttered some obsceneties and did as he was told. "Why, I oughta..." 

RAPH. 

"Right. Why didn't you just make the monkeys disappear?" he asked, while guardingly glancing over his shoulder at the snickering primates behind him with pillows and buckets at the ready. 

I'M SAVING THEM FOR LATER. 

Raphael groaned.   


* * *

YOU KNOW, LEONARDO...I THINK I MIGHT HAVE BEEN TOO NASTY TO RAPH. 

To which Leonardo answered by giving the equivalent grin of all the Cheshirecats the Titanic would've had room for.   
If the Titanic had been a feline ship, that is. And if it hadn't sunk, and-- anyway, he was grinning very widely, okay? 

"That's just because he has a slight attitude problem," said Leo reassuringly. 

I MEAN, BASICALLY ALL THE NARRATORS PICK ON HIM. MAYBE THAT'S WHY HE'S SO ANGRY? 

"Oh, no. That started a long time ago, before all the fan fiction," Leonardo insisted. 

BUT-- 

"It's not your fault, really," 

LEONARDO. 

"Yes?" He straightened himself up on the white, hard surface he was sitting on. It looked sort of like the studios in which they make commercials and music videos and so on, only it was-- or so it appeared to the naked eye-- endless. 

I HAD FIVE APES ROLL HIM IN THE OBLIGATORY 50/50 SPLIT TAR-AND-FEATHER BLEND JUST BECAUSE HE SAID "You messin' with me?". YOU TOO WOULD BE ANGRY. 

Leo let his breath out and sagged down again, incredibly slowly, almost unnoticeable, "Okay. All right." 

The Narrator suddenly rallied. BUT I GUESS IT'S SORT OF OKAY. BECAUSE...BECAUSE ISN'T THAT HOW ALL THESE STORIES GO? I DON'T KNOW-- SLAPSTICK? 

"I...I guess so," 

LEONARDO, I DO NOT KNOW IF THIS STORY IS REALLY MEANT TO GO THAT WAY. IT'S UNCERTAIN. 

"Hold on...are you suggesting that the story is a being?" 

SORT OF. YOU DO NOT REALLY JUST START WRITING THE STORY. YOU JUST THINK ABOUT CERTAIN THINGS YOU WANT TO WRITE ABOUT, AND THEN SUDDENLY YOU BUMP INTO-- OR YOU MIGHT SAY THE STORY COMES TO YOU. NATURALLY. The Narrator blushed, LIKE WINNIE THE POOH SAYS. HIS POEMS AND SONGS CAME TO HIM BY THEIR OWN WILL. ALL ONE HAS TO DO IS TO SNATCH THEM WHEN THEY COME UP CLOSE, OR PREFERABLY WAIT UNTIL THEY SETTLE IN YOUR HAND. 

"I don't write much myself, but I get what you mean," Leonardo nodded, "like when I'm meditating, I wait for thoughts to come to me, although often I have to resort to snatching them in my territory, so that they aren't lost to me," 

YOU REACH OUT. 

"And hopefully, they come," 

THOUGHTS, IDEAS... 

"...or other minds," 

YES. 

A low table suddenly stood on a tatami mat between them, as if it had always done so. It had a complete set of japanese bone plates and jugs and cups delicately placed on top of it.   
A steaming mug of green tea comfortably aromated the vast, white room. Leonardo cracked a smile. 

"You are telling me that this story will develop...uncertainly?" he gently picked up a cup with the colour of an eggshell, and poured some tea; firstly for the Narrator, then for himself. 

LIKE MOST STORIES. ONLY MORE SO. IT MIGHT CHANGE IN GENRE. 

"I think it just did," Leo mused in between two herbal sips.   


* * *

Then there's always Donatello.   
Since it's marginally safe to assume that all of you have guessed who the Narrator is-- I mean, who else could it _be_?-- you must wonder why Donatello has not ventured into the story yet, seeing as much a rabid Donny fan the owner of this site is. 

Well, it's coming. Do be patient. Oh, and here it is useful for you to note the following:   
The characters can no longer hear what the Narrator is saying, except when she's talking in capital letters, which represents her dialogue. This is after all a tale that she, err, I, am telling as an aftermath, plus, I found that if the turtles were to be able to hear all these comments, this story would be truly exasperating to write.   
These events took place last week, sometime between breakfast and dinner. Hence, this can also help to explain the not too happy mood of our green friends.   
The song has also changed. Now the most suitable tune would be "Freak Power Is Beautiful," by Freak Power.   
Anyone confused yet? 

For now, the Narrator had them all rounded up together. Michaelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo. Nearly all.   
The afore-mentioned storyteller wasn't just _slightly embarassed_ to see that Raphael still wasn't his usual, tar and feather-free   
self-- the storyteller was brought nearly to tears of _shame_ about it!   
She quickly snapped her fingers, and a big plastic bathtub filled with water, a brush, a sponge, a soap and a towel cheerfully went about their business in a manner not unlike that of Disney's. 

In short, a bunch of bathroom appliances were-- as it seemed to Raphael-- attacking him.   
Raph sputtered as the soap got in his mouth, and bubbles exited the depths of his stomach through his mouth, luckily sort of muffling the dirty language that aminated. The brush and soap where somewhat shocked by this and gave his mouth another thorough washing. 

He battled himself free of the helpful domestic utensils-- save for the towel that didn't think he was dry enough, he might catch a cold if he went around all wet, for heavens sake, it thought-- and his breath was hard, enraged and had the fragrant of Dove Extra Mild Skin Soap when it hit the face of the cringing female who was responsible for this. 

"Why..." he breathed, "WHY?!" 

Now, even the insistant towel seemed to think it wise to back off. 

The Narrator drew herself to her full height, which obviously didn't help the matters much.   
IT'S NOT...she began, them lifted her chin, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. IT'S JUST THE STORY WHO WANTS IT TO BE THIS WAY, AND WHO AM I TO ARGUE? I GUESS I JUST PICKED ONE WITH A SLIGHT LIMP IN ITS HUMOURISTIC LEG, SO TO SPEAK. 

Raph boggled. "Had a slight-- not your fault?! Why, you-- awwrrr!" he clawed his hands frustratively in the air and finally folded those two lethal weapons into two neat and tight little balls of temper, and let them rest at his sides. 

BESIDES, the Narrator hazarded, feeling slightly more secure, AS I MENTIONED TO MICHAELANGELO, I HAVE OBVIOUSLY BEEN READING WAY TOO MUCH TERRY PRATCHETT. 

Raphael started to pace the room, which at least, to his liking, had plenty of space to be mad in. What it lacked, however, were objects to throw violently about.   
"Look," he eventually said,"you seem to have a lot of, uh...power, so why couldn'tcha have just, I dunno, stamped or whistled or what the heck ya do, and then all that gunk woulda been off me?" 

I SNAP MY FINGERS. 

"Hmm? Oh, whatever! You get what I mean!" 

HEY, I _TRIED_ TO HELP. I'M NOT THAT POWERFUL. THE POWERS I HAVE ARE GIVEN TO ME BY THE STORY.   
AND BESIDES, IF YOU HADN'T BEEN SO _HOSTILE_...she let the words trail off meaningfully. 

Raphael snapped. "_You_ woulda been _extremely_ hostile if some usually inanimate objects suddenly jumped up an' tried ta give ya a good scrub! Help? Ha! Know what? Ya can help _me_ by kissin' my big, green--" 

SHEESH. I GUESS LEONARDO WAS RIGHT. 

"An' ya can-- what? Leo? What's that wise ass been sayin' know?" 

"I'm not a wise ass," 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah," 

As you can see, this particular story isn't too inventive, either. Eventually, it sent Leo and Raph on another brawl, and--   
Ooh, boxing outfits! Mm...okay, I'll give you a small plus for that. The boxing ring, flashing lights, the announcer, the audience, and the blimp were a little too much, though, I must admit.   
Then, to top it off, a man selling hot dogs suddenly emerged in the cheering crowd. They all had the vague notion that the story itself would be grinning smugly if it had a mouth.   
The Narrator went away from the boxing arena and sat down heavily on what was left of the white floor. 

"Pickle or onion?" 

She looked up and mutely accepted the onion-loaded sausage from Mike. She took a bite and sighed. 

SEE? I TOLD RAPH. THE STORY CAN WORK EVEN WITHOUT ME. 

"Ah, no," protested Mike airily, his eyes never leaving the impressive struggle between his two rivaling brothers, "I don't think so, not really. I mean," he grinned mischiviously, "someone has to type all this, you know... GO RAPH!! Err, I mean, GO, LEO, GO!! Yay!" 

THANKS A LOT. 

He finally turned to her, "Hey, I'm just kidding," he smiled, "I'm listening to ya, even when it doesn't seem like it," 

REALLY. 

"Mmhmm," he mumbled, staring at the boxers. 

GEE, I'M HONOURED. 

"Gotcha," he smirked triumphantly, and she groaned, hiding an amused smile. "Hey, at least you didn't portrait me as a babbling, hyperactive maniac...very good improvement...but as for Raph-- oy, I think you really have to work on some character growth there, or whatever--" 

HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I GOT TO TELL YOU-- 

He waved his hand dismissively, "Yeah, yeah, I know...the story's fault, right? The idea's fault?" 

Her shoulders shrunk. YES, she said, lips stiff. 

"You _could_ probably do something about it, though," he suggested. 

I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T THINK THE STORY LIKES RAPH MUCH. OR PERHAPS IT ACTUALLY DOES.   
I'M NOT QUITE FAMILIAR WITH THEIR LOGIC YET, she shrugged. 

"No, you're not understanding me," said Mike, "I'm not saying you should try to persuade it-- you should try to take control," 

Abruptly, a bucket of ice water got poured into Mike's lap. Not only water, but actual ice cubes as well. Mike rocketed off of the floor as if someone had brought an open electrical cord to his backside.   
The Narrator laughed a sweet laugh, not mockingly, FANCY THE CHARACTERS GIVING THE NARRATOR ADVICE. 

"Did you," squeaked Michaelangelo, in what he hoped was a well balanced mixture of hurt, anger and accusation, "did you do that?" 

She looked somewhat taken aback. NO, she shook her head, and wished Terry Pratchett's version of Death had used exclamation marks. She scouted around for the towel, which naturally, in an ironical way that the story thought was utterly amusing, failed to be there when they really needed it. She snapped her fingers, and a batch of lobsters dropped over Mike. 

She shrieked. NOW IT'S EVEN MESSING WITH ME. The Narrator got angry. Really angry, watching a falsetto-voiced Mike fending off a pile of manical lobsters. RIGHT, she said, enough ice in her voice to host the entire career of Wayne Gretzky. 

Now is the time to change the song. The theme to Pulp Fiction is appropriate. 

See, now I know that you're expecting that the Narrator would somehow beat the shit out of the evil story-- or certainly generally wicked, or in the least not extensively good natured-- and that there excists the possibility of a grand finale in the midst of the boxing ring.   
Therefore it's best to inform you of the complete abscence of this _now_, so that the let down wouldn't be too big further on. See, I'm already financing psychology sessions for me and four slightly exhausted/traumatized reptiles, so I can't afford any more subjects on my tab. 

Anyway-- 

With all the concentration she had, she visualised a big, soft, fluffy, and preferably nicely hot towel which was to replace the positively big and hot, though definitely _not_ soft and fluffy halves of the well known dish Surf N' Turf.   
Naturally, the noises from the crowd around Raph and Leo that she had so far failed to notice much, now drilled into her ear channels and huddled together in the middle of her head, to plan a powerful attack of migraine.   
Surely it didn't help that the Pulp Fiction theme was playing stylishly in the back, no, the foreground.   
The story's doing, of course. 

The result of this mind game was that Mike was now being toweled down by a very large-- and cold, mind you-- piece of sandpaper. The kind you fix bits of iron with.   
She stared in shock at the screaming turtle. THEY'RE RIGHT, she thought miserably, EVERYONE _DOES_ LOVE TO TORTURE HIM THE MOST... 

Then something dawned on her. It had changed its way of thinking.   
She had wished for something soft and fluffy, and it'd given her the complete opposite.   
Then surely, if she--   
Mike stopped screaming and slumped to the ground, while being vigourously, but gently toweled down by the fluffiest and softest towel known to man. And turtle. He gasped as he lied there, staring up at the white nothingness that was supposed to play the part of a ceiling.   
She hunched down beside him and patted his cheek carefully. The towel was done, so it thoughtfully folded itself into a neat, pillowish form and put itself under Mike's head. Michaelangelo shook his head lightly and blinked. 

"Spookular," 

She burst out laughing.   


* * *

Now...Enigma. "Almost Full Moon". 

SO, she said, wiping her hands together in a concluding motion, _THAT'S_ OVER WITH, then she remembered the commonly forgotten power of the jinx, and hastily added, OR SO I HOPE. ER, BELIEVE. 

"Let's watch the fight," said Mike, examining the scrapings all over his body with a miserable tone. 

She wished a bunch of horrible scrapings on Mike, lots of long gauzes and sores and-- heh, you get the point.   
She wiggled her fingers at him and said ALAKAZAM, purely for the show of it, and he was healed.   
The Narrator decided then that the story had probably figured out her little reverse psychology trick by now, and that it wasn't very smart to try it again. 

They sat down amongst the crowd and watched the match with interest, munching on popcorn and peanuts.   
The contestants had yet to get the upper hand of one another. Both Raphael and Leonardo had blood trickling from their nostrils, and the only difference in their breathy, glaring psysical states was that Raph's black eye was on his left side and Leo's was on his right.   
The Narrator wondered if she should do something about it all, and she expressed her worries to Michaelangelo. 

"Naw," he crunched noisily on his peanuts, "it's their fight. If they don't settle this now, they'll do it later. Come on, they always do this, and you should _know,_" 

MMM, she made an uncertain head movement that could qualify neither as a nod or as a shaking of the head. 

"Plus," he beamed, "it's kinda entertaining," 

In the ring, the two turtles had been working each others tempers up, and even Leo had come to the point where he had stopped trying to calm Raphael down.   
One thing, however, was seeping slowly into each of their consciences. 

What in the world started this? 

But they figured they'd be damned if they'd stop now, letting down the crowd, and more importantly, making a hazardous opening for the counterpart. Right now, they didn't trust each other at all.   
Now it's been a while since we used the word 'suddenly', and we kinda miss it. Brings action into the story, anyway.   
Suddenly, Donatello came bolting through a door which, similar to the low, japanese table, seemed as if it had been there forever.   
I _told_ you he was gonna show up, sooner or later. 

"Hey, could you be so kind as to keep down the noise in h-- holy moly! What's all this?!" 

The distraction caused our two battlers to knock each other out simultaneously. Hey, didn't I say that the story had a weird sense of humour? Anyway, it thought it was the fairest thing to do, and I agreed. Let someone else settle the everlasting question of who is the better of Raphael and Leonardo, I say. Wait, if you think about it, wasn't it kinda Don that won, even if it was unintentionally? I mean-- okay, I'll shut up now...   
And don't even think about getting ahold of the tape from the match or something, and mesure if maybe, just maybe, Leonardo's fist hit Raphael's chin just a quarter of an inch before Raph's hit him or something bizarre like that.   
When I say simultaneously, I _mean_ simultaneously. 

UM, the Narrator looked at Donatello, who had stopped in the doorway and was looking surprised at his semiconscious brothers, and the tremendous crowd, cheering and whistling and argueing about the bets and vagures, some claiming they had bet that the result would be a tie.   
Her cheeks flushed red and she gave the popcorn bag to Michaelangelo, hurrying over to Don. IT'S JUST AN _EXPERIMENTAL_ STORY. 

"I see," said Donatello quietly, gazing over the scenery once more, not quite believing what he saw. This room shouldn't have erm, _room_ for all these things, he told himself. 

REALLY, THESE PEOPLE SHOULD BE, UH,_ SCARED_ OR SOMETHING. YOU KNOW. BUT SINCE THEY'RE AN _EXPERIMENTAL_ CROWD...she tried to explain. 

"Come as a set, do they?" he mumbled distractedly, poking the tribune, and one or two people, to see if they were real.   
They were, and a surprised woman even slapped him. "Sorry," he said, holding his stinging cheek. 

We see before us now another unfortunate, or let's say _involuntary_ turn of events, caused by the story, which, for some reasons unaware, I have chosen not to adress as The Story. But let's move on, shall we?   
As I said-- the Narrator had nothing to do with the fact that she was being reduced to a blushing and nervous young woman.   
Seriously. I mean it. The scene _she, _or_ I,_ had planned, was this:   
Don were to barge in, yes, and look really amazed-- that bit's covered too-- but after that, _she _had laid it out be fairly different. Don was only to be given about one line, or around that number, and she was to bolt out of there, leaving everything behind to go and do katas with Splinter. Or rather _learning_ to do them. Which evidently is never going to happen.   
I should also briefly mention that this was originally supposed to be a dramatic, or preferably _serious_ tale of strength, brotherhood, honour, the supernatural, how different humans looked upon the turtles and-- well, the title says most of it, yes?   
In stead it became a ludicrous display of, of, um, of-- ludicrous things!   
I should've never listened to Yello. I feel like one of those houseplants that people talk to in different ways, and play different types of music to, to see how or if they are affected by it.   
Are _you_ disappointed of the outcome? _I'm_ not sure _how_ I feel about it. Well, at least it's different, ain't it? 

On the contrairy, the Narrator knew _exactly_ how she was feeling at the time. Her face and body was tingling with red-hot embarassment and uncertainty as to what she was to do next. She forgot herself, wishing a red rose into Don's hand, and what he got wasn't nearly as pleasant.   
Believe or not, an old sock materialized into his hand. It was one from his own, sparse collection of socks, to tell you the truth, and he felt that she was trying to tell him something about his laundry habits, and felt equally embarassed. And amazed by the fact that a sock suddenly turned up in his hand, of course. 

THAT, EH, WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ROSE. 

"Oh?" he brightened. 

YEAH... 

Before we get too mushy, like we did in that other story, Re-Rewind, we will let the crowd help us out. 

"Donny and Lola, sittin' in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" they roared in chorus. 

But seriously, was that _really_ the best they could do? I think not. It worked, though. 

SHUT UP, she muttered and took the quickest route out of there, meaning the same door from which Donatello emerged. 

Donatello scowled at them, who shrugged at him, frowning, all of them at the same time-- the story had apparently taken advantage of them.   
He hesitated for a while, then he followed in the same path she had went only a minute ago.   
What they did on the other side of that door, they would say, was nobody's business but their own. 

And yes, my friends, you need to get your minds out of the gutter. 

Story End 

* * *

  
  
  
  


_"Freak power is beautiful, baby!" - Freak Power_   


[Lola S. Cubish's TMNT Lair][1]   
[Fan Fiction][2]   
[Short,Weird Things][3]__

_This story is dedicated to the Annual TMNT Fanfic Awards, and it's named after the band/artist Freak Power._

* * *

   [1]: turtlehero.html
   [2]: Fanficsbyme.html
   [3]: shortweirdthings.htm



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